Home By The Sea
by so kiss me goodbye
Summary: Twenty-five years after the death of Danny Latimer, Fred Miller is curious about his family's past—that means visiting Broadchurch, a town which has cast a long shadow over his life.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Looks like there's still a few things I want to explore in Broadchurch.

**Spoilers**: Season 1

**Warning**: Discussions may canvas some of the issues which arise in Broadchurch.

**HOME BY THE SEA**

_Let us relive our lives in what we tell you_

If you ever go to Broadchurch, do me a favour. Do it properly.

Don't let them convince you otherwise; there are only two ways to truly arrive: get born there or wash up on the tide.

Forget driving up in your Golf rental and don't bother with the bus. Grabbing a cab from the station'd be a waste of money. Visitors just passing through take the road—arrive that way and that's all you'll ever be.

You can't call me a visitor—I was born in the town's three-room maternity wing—but when Mum shovelled us in the car and fled, I guess the journey was every bit as hard as a labour and we all got reborn at the other end of it.

Was it hard for her to drive away?

I'm not convinced she ever really escaped.

Because, turns out, just as there are only two ways into Broadchurch, there are only two ways out: over the waves or in a box.

Mum got us as far as London, and although she could turn her back on the town, I don't think she ever stopped looking over her shoulder.

When I was a kid I used to think she looked out of fear. I was too young to understand yearning.

Twenty-five years she's lived with the shadow of those cliffs on the western horizon. Their shadow was cold over us, her sons, too. Broadchurch was a name we never spoke but could never ignore. Family holidays, she took us east. To France, to Spain, to Scotland. But we never went any further southwest than Stonehenge, and that was only after months of whining. That's how far those cliffs loomed.

I knew why. Mum never lied or made up stories. Dad's in jail—he killed a Broadchurch boy—and even before I knew the details, I sensed the murder my father committed was a cut beyond the usual.

A deed so awful it reached out and swallowed Mum whole, making her an untouchable. Unforgivable.

But for all their threat, those cliffs—which I knew only from the pictures Tom squirrelled away—were like the moon to me. A beacon, a thing to look to: some nights a barely-there sliver pretending to look the other way, other times so round in my imagination all I could do was sit and wonder.

One day, I vowed, I was going to meet these cliffs head on. Because like it or not, I was born in Broadchurch and I had a right to be there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

I have one—fluttering—heartbeat of fear as Sunny Sail slips away from its mooring. Rob and Jenna turn and wave and grow less distinct as they glide out of the harbour, and then I know it's real: I am in Broadchurch; and it's lovely; and it's sunny; and I have to tell someone, and it can't be my mother.

I dig about in my duffel bag; my phone has migrated to the bottom.

'Guess where I am?'

'A job interview?' Tom sounds hopeful.

'Ha.'

'The annual gathering of destitute film grads?' For all his extreme part-time pursuits, my brother leads a conventional office life on the fifteenth floor of the HSCR building in London. He's convinced he'll be paying for every family holiday for the rest of our lives because I'm never going to be any more than a struggling wedding videographer doing pet tribute vids on the side.

'Sure, arsehole, but we're being kicked out to make way for the National Pricks convention, so I guess we'll be crossing paths shortly. Go on, guess. Really guess.'

Tom's sigh shivers down the line. 'I don't know, Fred … Shit'—there goes the penny—'does Mum know?'

'No, and you're not going to tell her.'

'That's right, and if you know what's best for her, you'll get the hell out of there.'

I wait to see if he'll say anymore. I know my brother.

'Fred?' You can't miss the catch in his voice. 'What do you think?'

My brother remembers Broadchurch through the filtering lens of childhood memories. Dad's taint shouldn't have touched him, but as far as I know he hasn't been back since he was 11. That's loyalty for you.

I think about his question, wondering what he wants me to say. I look around the tiny harbour, taking in the empty stretches of green sea water slapping up against the wooden piles of the wharf. It's not surprising on a glorious early summer Friday—everyone that can has put to sea today. Far to my right those famous cliff faces rear, but immediately in front of me is a stand of squat waterfront shops.

Tom can probably hear my shrug. 'Small. Fishy-smelling. The locals carry pitchforks.' An old timer cycles past me with a rod poking upright from the back of his seat. 'Real postcard material.'

Tom laughs. 'Just—be careful.'

I understand his concern, but taking in the scene before me, I can't help wondering if the bogeyman's as bad as they think he is.

Slinging the duffel over my shoulder, I make my way towards the shops. Time to test the helpfulness of the locals.

The first place I enter—the news agent—doesn't have what I need ('You'll want the tourist office for that'), but they're happy to give me carefully drawn instructions showing where to go. By mid morning I've found my way to a bustling High Street and am standing in front of a local beauty at an information desk.

'I think I'll manage,' I say.

She's been marking supermarket locations with stick figures on a tear-off info map, and I haven't the heart to tell her I only need to poke my head out the door to work out where the local Waitrose is. But she's trying hard, and I appreciate her effort.

'My mother was from around here,' I offer, and her face puckers in sympathy.

Curious word choice—'was'. Generations my family lived on this edge of the Dorset coast; I bet if I get up close enough, it'll be their bones I see poking out of the cliff face instead of the petrified shells and fossils others come to find.

Like her mother and her father, and their mothers and their fathers, Mum was born tumbling these massive hills and treading the waves.

Ancestry can't be erased. So my mother—very undeniably still alive—is also still very much 'from around here'. As much as she might wish it, she can't change that.

She'll skirt the topic in a typically pragmatic fashion. 'Broadchurch? Used to come from there.' Casually inaccurate word choice neatly erasing the past. She'll have you believe she's from London these days—and if you're not paying attention she almost sounds like it enough for it to be true, but Tom knows better. At Christmas—those Christmases when he isn't climbing mountains in South America or plotting some media-baiting arctic trek—he makes it a challenge to see who can get to the bottom of the second wine bottle quickest.

It's not about the wine or toasting absent friends (or family). When she's tipsy, her natural accent shows up like a long lost friend. It always makes Tom smile.

It usually leads to their other Christmas tradition: cranking up the stereo and singing along to the Smiths.

'And if a double decker bus crashes into us …' they'll sing before they drop back on the couch in fits of inappropriate giggles. Neither of them ever makes it to the end. Mum will simultaneously break into tears and laughter.

God knows what the neighbours think.

But Mum is a taboo topic in this town, so the less they know about the truth, the better. I don't correct the Carnival Queen, who has assumed the worst for my mother.

'What was her name?' she asks, handing me change for some postcards I've bought. 'I'm just here for the summer, but Jill over at the tearoom'll know—she knows everyone living or dead, and even the ones you're not sure about.'

I'm torn. It's on the tip of my tongue to say—people ask me a question, I generally give them an answer—but I have to fight this inclination. Still, avoiding a response might create unwelcome interest. I'm not sure how long I'm going to be here; people will talk eventually. Jenna, my playwright friend extraordinaire, has had two weeks drilling me in the basics of redirection.

'Jill, you say?' I look to where her cat-eye painted gaze has gone and spy the tables topped with sun umbrellas already filling up with tourists. 'I'll keep that in mind. Cheers.'

I grab the postcards and map and I resettle my bag, swinging round and stepping straight into the path of another customer. He must have been barreling through because we collide like trucks and my stash goes flying from my hands. He apologises and bends down before I can react.

'All right, mate?' he says, handing the postcards back. He'd be about my age—maybe younger.

'Yeah, fine. Thanks.'

'Might want this, too.' He's got the map. 'Never know when you'll need the nearest stick man shop.'

I take it from him and consider saying something else, but he's already moving on. The girl's cherry red lips curve up when he reaches the counter.

'Ready?' he asks.

'Just grab my stuff,' she replies.

With a vague and irrational sense of disappointment, I think I've been forgotten. But the guy's dark eyes follow me in the reflection as I leave, and then, so do the girl's.

On the street I take a moment to clear my head. Although I've never been here, I'm confident I know the way. The length of my stay may depend on the success or failure awaiting me at the end of my next destination. I recheck the map.

Some of the streets have the whiff of middle class newness about them—Spring Close, Rose Way—but I'm not in that area of town. I'm on a street where the houses look fatigued, like they're pressed and straining to hold themselves up. I know the house I want by its address: 14 Black Street, Broadchurch.

Christmases, birthdays, there'd always be an envelope bearing big, scrawling letters spelling out the recipient's name—and the return address. I knock on the door at 14.

It opens and a tiny, pixie-faced woman (today with impossibly jet black hair) leans against the doorframe. She looks me over from head to toe. 'Tom told me to expect you.'

My smile stretches to mirror hers. 'Told you I'd get here one day.'

My aunt Lucy reaches out to hug me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

* * *

'Have you spoken to Mum lately?'

The tiny patio soaks up the full morning sunshine and Lucy chivvies me to a deck chair. So this is her place, is it? It feels weird to be here. We passed ceramic ducks on the hall walking through and I have to make some mental readjustments to what I know about my aunt. She disappears then returns with two steaming mugs and an ashtray.

'Last week. She seemed to think you were somewhere up around Norfolk.'

'I was—then.' I palm the coffee mug. 'Lucy, did she talk—as in really talk—to you?'

Lucy sits back and draws on a cigarette. 'Is this about your father?'

'Partly.' We're all open people—even Tom when he's relaxed—but Dad is a delicate topic. 'Parole hearing's next month. You know he's likely to get out, don't you?'

'Him and all that remorse he's packing,' says Lucy. Her eyes glitter. 'I'd like to see him turn up here.'

She looks at me and sees my grimace. 'Sorry, Fred, but your dad's scum and I ain't ever going to lie to you about that.'

I wave it off. It's one of the few topics my mother maintains complete radio silence over, but her blank eyes and slack mouth on visiting days used to tell me everything I needed to know. Mum wore black like she was dressing up to visit a funeral parlour. She'd drive us to Belmarsh twice a year, as zipped up and locked down as any inmate.

Lucy puffs. 'Do you know what he intends to do?'

'He's talk about being paroled to Cardiff but—'

She flicks a knowing look my way. 'You don't think he'll do that?'

It's amazing what letters, two visits and the occasional phone call a year can tell you about a person. Dad's never been anything but needy. Hungry for any and everything he could hear about our lives. (Well, not quite everything—we know not to talk about Alec any.) He says the right thing—he's cried and apologised more than a few times—but faced with him, in the 'family friendly' visitor rooms at prison, you don't forget why he's in there. He has an aunt in Cardiff—he talks about seeing her again, but sometimes when I'm talking to him, I feel my father is involved in a different conversation. One where he isn't a convicted child murderer, where he hasn't been incarcerated for twenty-five years. One where we're still a family of four: Mum, Dad and the two boys. He's never made threats, but I wonder what parole will mean.

'I'm worried he'll end up in London. Mum's got enough on her plate at the moment … I'd like—I'd like to bring her home.'

Lucy's eyes go big and she nods. But the movement's small and sad, and not filled with the excitement I'd hoped for.

'This is the last place he'd come,' I say. 'She could be at peace here.'

Lucy stubs out the smoke and runs her hands up and down her arms, warding off a non-existent chill. 'I don't know, Freddie. I don't know.'

'But why?' In frustration I grip the cup. 'If he's served his time, hasn't she?'

Lucy tips her head and I see her thinking.

I try again. 'Do people honestly care that much?'

It feels crass to think it, but kids get murdered all the time. Murderers might get stick, but usually most people just feel sorry their families. Mum drew the short straw with Broadchurch.

'This town remembers,' Lucy says. 'And Ellie … didn't help herself.'

This makes me look up. 'What do you mean? She left, didn't she? What more was she supposed to do?'

Lucy chews her lip. 'She was supposed to disappear, Fred. She was supposed to crawl under a rock so people could forget she ever existed in the first place. But she didn't. She never changed her name. She never sold the house. She took you boys to see your father—'

'I don't think she got any pleasure from that.'

'Doesn't matter. That's not how people think. And you can bet as much as they wanted her to get lost, they sure as hell wanted to keep tabs on her as well. She made that too easy.'

'How? Who'd know? Who'd care?'

Bar Lucy and Olly, my cousin, who moved away from Broadchurch years ago, I never recalled Mum keeping in touch with anyone in Dorset. And it wasn't as though Lucy would go talking. She could've sold her story years ago, but she never has.

Lucy shrugs. 'Cops gossip.'

That might explain it. Mum started her policing career in Broadchurch. When she left she took up a post in London with a cyber crime unit. She was part of a team which broke an international paedophile ring. She recognised a location in an explicit image and from it they managed to track down kids being traded for sex. It was a big deal at the time. There were stories on telly and current affairs shows. I didn't know Mum was a part of the team until she was presented with an award for her work. She didn't want to receive it in person until Alec grumped at her and said Tom and I deserved it. She had her picture in some of the daily papers, but although I know they wanted to interview her, she wouldn't do it.

'There's nothing I can say,' she'd reply if anyone asked her why not.

It made her name in police circles. But that was years ago, and although she continued her work with the unit (and was, I'd always got the impression, affectionately regarded by her team) she never stepped into the limelight again if she could help it.

'You think people resented the commendation?' I ask.

'Maybe.' Lucy nods. 'Some thought she was mocking Broadchurch, being so prominent. Like she wasn't doing what she was supposed to. Not staying under that rock. People didn't like it.'

'Sod them.'

'Maybe.'

As open as my family is, it's really only the facts of Dad's crime that we've discussed. Occasionally I'll get a bit more out of Tom, but he'll shut down as soon as he realises what he's let on. When Lucy or Olly visit we're all usually laughing, so there's never an opportune time to raise it with them. Me being here today though—there was only ever going to be one thing I wanted to talk about.

'How was it for you? For Olly?'

Lucy taps her cigarette pack and extends it to me. She smiles when I shake my head. 'Dirty habit,' she says, lighting up again.

'It didn't really affect us. Not the same way. Different surname, you see. We didn't count. Besides. We're from around here. But Ellie—I mean everything about it—it just raised questions. About them—their relationship. You couldn't get away from that.'

My aunt is tactfully avoiding the obvious. They call it grooming. Grooming for sex. And while he faced a charge for it, Dad was never convicted. They got him on murder in the end, the secondary charge not necessary to get the jail term they wanted. So while the school yard 'paedo' taunt stung, it wasn't legally accurate. But, Christ, was it loaded.

Being the son of a paedo was hell, briefly, in year 6 (until Mum worked out what was happening and pulled me out of that school). What was it like being the wife of one? Everyone wonders, and a lot of that wondering gets pretty personal.

Lucy drains the last of her drink. 'You got plans?'

'Book in at the hostel. Take a look at the old house …'

'Oh.' She seems crestfallen. 'I've got a spare—'

'Too risky, Luce. Me staying here's a dead giveaway. That, or your neighbours'll think we've shacked up.'

She chuckles, then relaxes. 'So you'll be here—in Broadchurch—a few days?'

'Could be longer … '

Lucy's having none of my evasiveness. 'You're up to something, Fred Miller.'

'Well, there is something.'

She fixes me with a stare.

'What happened to all our stuff? I mean—I'm assuming we had stuff? Mum lets the house out, but she can't have left everything in it. I'd've asked her but—'

'I've got it.'

'You have?'

'Well, it wasn't much. Your mum didn't keep the furniture or anything. It's just small things: books, photos, paintings you kids did—keepsakes.'

'If it wasn't much why didn't she just take it?'

'Everything happened in such a rush, Fred. I think she always planned to get it. It's just—there were other things going on. I never thought to bring it with me when I visited. It just got forgotten.'

'Can I see it?'

'Are you gonna give me the truth?'

I'll have to tell her anyway, but I've been reluctant about bringing it up because I know this isn't going to make people happy.

'Nothing's certain yet—it might not come off …' I reach into my bag and retrieve my prized possession, laying it in front of her. 'There's this story about myself that I know nothing about. Mum and Tom have their memories. I don't have that. I want to tell my story—I want to try and make sense of it …'

She eyes the camera like I've dropped some kind of rotting, dead animal on her kitchen table. I don't think she notices when her hands reach for her cigarette pack again.

'What? You want to make a movie?'

'Not a movie. A documentary.'


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

* * *

The house isn't hard to find. It's not as if it's been hiding. Anyway, it's got no shadows to hide in under the midday sun.

The streets are empty of noise; it's one of those very still, soundless summer days where only far off engines turning over or doors being slammed break the eery hum of quiet.

I wanted to be smart about this. Stick to the plan. Gather as much information—impressions, material, research—as possible under a cloak of anonymity. But the longer I spend here, the stronger the threat of exposure grows. I've passed people in the street knowing they don't recognise me—have no cause to know me—yet fearing I carry some visible mark betraying my secret like a lighthouse in the dark.

Lucy doesn't delay or attempt to dissuade me; she's smart enough to read the signs of restlessness—my hands fidgeting on the table top, my foot tapping against the table leg—and interpret what they mean.

About my plans she says little, and I can see the idea confuses her. All my shock confession elicits from her is doubt. Coming from anyone else I'd be insulted.

Okay, I am a little insulted.

What is it about being the youngest which makes you seem less competent? Like your family has to indulge your interests? Pat you on the head and say, 'A filmmaker?—That's nice, love'?

Both Lucy and Mum share (and I tamp down guilt admitting this is what I think) a pedestrian, concrete view of the world, unencumbered by over-active imaginations. Lucy's probably wondering what my camera can capture twenty-five years after the event. For her, fact is fact, black is black.

That Mum and Luce are so literal about the world makes the men they picked and the sons they had amusing. I never met Olly's dad, but Tom assures me he was a wanker prone to promising little boys remote control helicopters and trips to Disneyland which he never delivered on. Tom sounds so aggrieved whenever he mentions Olly's dad it's like he's channelling Olly's disappointment. Olly just shrugs when you bring it up. It's interesting to me how Olly's dad is safe territory for Tom to disparage. Our father is a much touchier subject.

Dad was—is—a different variety of bullshitter, of course.

Then there's Alec. People get taken in by his act. Aloud he focuses on facts and organises his thoughts logically—he's an arse to argue with—but you never entirely know what's going on in his head. And that's where he gets into your head.

Early on I threw a tantrum about starting school—I threatened to run away. Alec packed a bag, complete with Mr Bunny, paddled me out the door and told me to 'write us' a postcard when I 'got there' (wherever there was). Tom says when Alec opened the door ten minutes later I ran at Alec and pummeled his kneecaps, wailing because I didn't know how to write. It's family legend that within an hour Alec had me holding a crayon and printing my name perfectly. I was so proud when the teacher praised me on my first day of school.

Looking back, I can see that Alec was a crafty bastard—and it didn't matter how old I was because he always knew enough to out-maneuver me on the chessboard of childhood development. That takes a power, or a skill, or a way of thinking, beyond any kind of mental exercise my aunt appears to do.

I'm less sure about my mother. It wouldn't surprise me if she was actively choosing not to engage her imagination. She has this thing. She throws up a lot randomly. Well, not a lot 'a lot', but more than your average one or two unfortunate bouts of food poisoning a year. It led to one embarrassing family incident years ago when Alec started being a more obvious presence in the house and Tom put two and two together and came up with a baby.

We don't hold back laughter—Mum encourages it—but that's one story that never comes up. No one walked away from it without a red face.

I'm fairly certain there never was a baby (or even the hint of one) because Mum's never stopped unexpectedly jumping up from the sofa, or dashing in from the garden, hand clamped over straining cheeks as she makes for the loo. Sometimes she goes months unaffected, then—bam—she's on her knees over the toilet heaving. As far as I can tell there's no physical trigger, but I got I look in her eyes once—just before an attack—and if I had to call it, I'd say a thought, maybe an unpleasant memory, had popped into her head. I'd never ask her about it. Some things don't need to be said.

Lucy is perplexed by my documentary idea.

'A documentary? How? There's not much more to tell, is there?'

I'm glad she doesn't ask why; she's not questioning the project—just the practicalities of it, I guess.

'I don't know what I'm going to say yet—I've got to start somewhere though. Looking around … getting a feel for the place …'

An eyebrow soars but she refrains from expressing any further opinion.

'You need directions?' is all she says as I transfer a few items from my duffel to a smaller backpack, juggling it to fit things in.

'Nope. Should be good. Lime Avenue, right?'

From the threshold of her home she watches me leave, arms crossed over her chest in unvoiced disapproval. 'If Ellie asks—'

'I don't expect you to lie for me, Luce.'

I mean it, too. Mum raised us with a dim view of lying. She's going to work it out eventually. All I'm hoping for is more time than less.

My original plan was to wait until dusk—or take an early morning stroll—when fewer idle eyes would latch onto the sight of a man pausing too long outside the murderer's home.

But I just can't wait.

I make beautiful plans—then I break them. Always have. Maybe because plans are like chains. Sometimes you want them to hold you in place; and sometimes they just aren't strong enough. And sometimes this aspect of myself frightens me. Because I did not get it from my mother.

Broadchurch is not a large place—nor is it easy to get lost. Lime Avenue is barely twenty minutes walk from Black Street. The signpost stands on a lean. If I were to follow its point, no doubt I'd end up in Australia. A trip to the other side of the world suddenly feels appealing, because when I look up I realise Lime Ave is much shorter than I expected and I'll be there in a few unhurried steps.

Although the street appears empty, I know people could be anywhere. The murderer's been gone a long time, but this will always be his place. His and the wife's. There'll always be a stigma attached to it. So I ask myself what it is I need from this experience. Get what I need, then get the hell out of here. It's a moment I've dreamed of for years—I should know what I want already.

I know what side of the street it's on so I cross to the other side. I train my gaze on the footpath, catching house numbers from the corner of my eye, until there it is. A shape waiting patiently for me to acknowledge it.

There's no way to be cool about this.

I don't know what I want.

My mind goes blank. I get nothing. No flash of recognition, no flood of memory. No sudden insight to myself or my family, no missing puzzle piece falling squarely into place. Not even the hairs on the back of my neck play ball.

It's a house. It's white, begging for a lick of paint. (Someone should tell the landlady.) The garden follows no discernible plan although the shrubs have been cut to a manageable degree. Its current occupants leave nothing outside to reveal who they might be. Only a blue dreamcatcher in an upstairs window hints at any character.

This house is mum. Nothing screams tragedy happened here.

Before I can stop myself I've put my hands up to frame the image, but there's no narration going with that picture. Sentences don't connect in my head.

Mute, the house disguises perfectly the remains of my imploded family.

As if my perfect family never existed here. Then I laugh. Because it never did.

If this house has anything to give, it won't give it to me.

The boy's home can't be far. Did Tom tell me they used to play together when they were small? That the boy—Danny—lived across a field from our place? There does appear to be a clearing behind the house. The nextdoor neighbour's garden is minimal and I move to steal a view. My feet slow and my heart mutters. My subterfuge—all this sneaking into Broadchurch and around it—is disrespectful. One look back at the house is all I need to feel my resolve collapse. To make my summer plans seem pointless.

My aunt is right. What story is there to tell?

This is just a house. That field is just a field. No-one's who they were twenty-five years ago.

I have to look away and doing so I turn my back on the house.

A 'for sale' sign hangs askew in front of the opposite house. It's not the only one on the market.

There's another rectangular posting at a gate three doors down. I want a broader view of the street and step back between two parked cars. Then I step back again.

The squeal of brakes is all the warning I get before a rush of hot air slams me to the ground.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

* * *

The sound of a vehicle bucking to a stop is followed by a slamming door.

Embedded grit stings my hands and panic quickens my pulse. Did someone just try to run me over? I knew I wouldn't be welcome in Broadchurch, but killing me off? That seems excessive.

Boots pound toward me. With a grimace, I try to stand.

'Shit, mate!' Relief and anger mix in the voice. 'Are you all right? You just stepped ou—'

When he cuts off, I glance up and experience surprise too. It's the same guy who knocked me over at the tourist place. He's quick to recover. A firm hand goes out to help me up. There's no sign of the girl from this morning.

'Hello, again,' I wheeze. 'Mowing people down a habit of yours?'

'Mate, you were way out of line this time!' His grin puts me at ease, then he pulls the proverbial rug out from under my feet. 'The least you could do is offer me a drink.'

I'm standing but the cars and footpath go topsy-turvy. Maybe I knocked my head after all. 'Eh?'

'Did I actually hit you?'

He reaches out as if he wants to check for himself but pulls back as if he's realised he might have intruded too far.

'Clipped my bag—shit!'

I fell forward—hands and shins taking the brunt—so I don't think anything's broken, but my camera's in my backpack. I pat down the bag with a sickening clench in my stomach. My eyes pinch shut before I pull the camera out.

Thank god for sea breezes. I'd stuffed a sweater around it at Lucy's. It looks all right—no cracks. When it whirs into life, I sigh. 'No harm done.'

'That's a relief. What is that? Looks pricy.' The guy's dark eyes dance with mirth. 'What were you thinking, walking out like that?'

He turns around, taking in the house with the for sale sign—the direction I'd been facing when his van zipped by and airbrushed my backpack.

'Just—'

'Looking to buy?' The guy nods knowingly. 'That one's perfect if you fancy developing an intimate relationship with your local plumber.'

Maybe it was the fall, but I'm not sure what type of conversation I'm having. 'Pardon?'

'Poor drainage, dodgy pipes from the 30s, generations of long haired women. You do the maths.'

'It's okay, really—'

Maybe I had misunderstood.

'Number 21 over there'—he points to the brick bungalow three doors down—'you might be onto a nice little investment earner. Chrome plated fixtures, gold-rimmed throne, a Rolls Royce of a hot water pressure system—she's worth the extra expense.'

'Excuse me?'

Is he gabbling so fast because his adrenaline is running? It can't be everyday you nearly run someone over.

'But the real gem is behind you.'

At last the hairs on my neck jump to attention. 'It's not for sa—'

'Six six six Lime Ave.' He makes it sound like first prize in a lottery. 'Home, once, to Broadchurch's biggest shit. If only you could persuade him to give that place up, you'd have yourself a genuine piece of local history.'

This is moving much faster than even I'd have imagined. Horror rises from my stomach. It seems impossible that this topic would come up so quickly … he hasn't guessed my secret, has he? I knew I'd be sprung—but so soon?

I stare at the guy, trying to read his motivation. Dark hair, styled longish back on top with one side razored—a look loads of students are wearing at the moment. His workman's overalls don't say student—but, undone to his waist with the top and sleeves hanging down his back, they don't say serious tradesman either.

He's looking to my old home—but despite his words I don't see anger or disgust. Just a face screwed up in curiosity. If he wants to think I'm here checking out real estate, I'm not going to disabuse him of that notion. If he thinks he can trick me into some other sort of confession … Jenna's number one lesson on Sunny Sail comes back to me: 'When all else fails just stay silent, Fred. Let everyone else do the talking.'

I guess he's not expecting any response because he goes on. 'But good luck getting hold of him because he's well and truly locked up.'

Now there's a thought to make the blood freeze. Could this guy be right? Does Dad still have a stake in the house?

'You don't say,' I murmur to be polite. Word about Dad's possible parole can't be common knowledge in Broadchurch.

'Hardly a house on this street I couldn't give you the inside run on. Been in all of them except that one.'

That might explain the curiosity. Nothing is as tempting as the door you haven't been through—especially one with an infamous history.

'How do you know it's the pick of the crop, then?'

The guy laughs. 'I don't, really. Just spinning some shite. See if I can get a bite. You don't look like you're from around here.'

I decide to play along. I don't think my secret's out just yet, but I'm intrigued to hear this stranger's thoughts on the house. If he grew up here, he'll know all the stories kids tell. He looks a bit younger than me, so I doubt he knows any of the players, but kids grow up ferreting out everything, right? 'So how come you've never made it into that one?'

'It's a rental. The property manager has some deal with a firm in Dorchester. We don't do it.'

'We?'

He nods to the van and, for the first time, I notice the name on it. Latimer.

Latimer.

Suddenly that drink sounds very, very tempting. I open my mouth a fraction before his reply.

'You're a plumb—'

'I work for my dad.'

The universe is laughing at me right now.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

* * *

Aunt Lucy is marshalling an early tea when I return, vegetables—carrots, cauliflower, broccoli, cabbage—laid out in neat regiments behind a chopping board. She doesn't ask where I've been; she thinks she knows. She doesn't know the half of it.

A sliver of glorious evening sunshine from a living room window slices her kitchen. I feel it, sharp on my back, as my bag slides off my shoulder and I straddle a stool at her counter. I still feel shocked cold.

'I don't remember the house.'

Lucy stops attacking carrots with a peeler, and pierces me with her gaze. 'Why would you? You weren't more than a year old.'

I know she's right, but the visit hadn't turned out how I imagined. I poke at an apple in her fruit bowl, rolling it against the round curve of the smooth glass. 'You'd think I'd remember something …'

'I'd say not remembering was a blessing, wouldn't you?'

'Maybe—maybe I hoped seeing it would release trapped memories. I don't know.'

Lucy scrunches her face; she can probably smell the alcohol on my breath. 'God, Fred. Why would you want them?'

She's right. What kind of sad sob is jealous of the memories which hurt his family most? What Mum went through—what Tom suffered—let's not romanticise. They have a closeness forged in a cauldron that I was spared. It doesn't mean I've missed out on anything, even though I struggle to accept this.

I reach across and nab a carrot stick. 'Are you going to tell her?'

She play swats my hand. 'That you've been here? I already told you. If she asks.'

'What about my plans?'

She shrugs, picking up a knife. 'Depends. Let's see what happens first.'

My teeth test the firmness of the carrot stick before sinking in for the crunch. When that one's gone, I dare to grab another, keeping my gaze fixed on her as though we are locked in a kitchen-themed battle of stealing sticks. 'I met someone today. I'm meeting up with him for a drink tomorrow night.'

'That's nice.' Lucy's strategy is to feign nonchalance; she scoops up the carrots and plops them in a pot. Then she's onto the cabbage, lining the knife against the core. With thoughtless efficiency she excises the heart.

I don't take my eyes off her. 'Jamie Latimer.'

The knife clatters onto the bench.

* * *

'How can you be so stupid, Fred?'

Okay. So there's no mistaking Aunt Lucy's thoughts on the matter. She talks it out of her system, listing the unnumerable ways I'm an idiot.

We're finishing dinner—the meat's as tough as boots—victim of my aunt's dismay. My fault, I suppose.

Jamie Latimer.

How did this happen?

Fate chucked a large icy bucket of water on me—that's how it happened. I remember getting in his van—he offered to drop me off in town—and having a flirty, bantering conversation the short ride back. I was too stunned to think clearly. I gave an evasive introduction and explanation for my visit to Broadchurch. He was heading off on a callout and suggested meeting up for a drink after work.

My deer-in-the-headlights response slipped out in panic. 'Yeah—sorry mate, got something on—'

As I was about to slam the door, he leaned across and flicked me a card. 'Hey, Just Fred, if you change your mind—'

The van drove off and I was left staring at his card. I checked in at the hostel, then found the nearest pub and spent the afternoon downing pints of bitter, wondering what the heck I was doing here. I waited a full ten minutes staring at the message I'd typed before hitting send on my phone.'Tomorrow? ;)'

Aunt Lucy isn't giving up; she's still hacking away at her chop. I consider begging for mercy on its behalf.

'When he finds out who you are, when his parents find out—you know they're still here, right? God. This is gonna be bloody mess. I ought to ring your Mum now—for fuck's sake—you're twenty-six. You should know better—'

When she starts repeating herself, I know she's battle-weary.

There's still enough ammo stored for a final shot. 'I can't believe this is you, Fred. You know what this could do to your mother, right?'

'Fuck, give her some credit, would you!'

Lucy looks me, eyes wide, mouth open.

Sometimes I think people—those who know the sordid truth—tread too softly around Mum. It doesn't come from a bad place—they want to protect her—but it's patronizing. Everyone says how _strong_ she is—why don't they _treat_ her as if she is?

True, I know Mum's not going to be happy about my trip to Broadchurch. But I'm not _not_ telling her because I think she can't handle it.

'Mum? She'll understand—she'll get it.' I say it with conviction, although I know I'm on shaky ground.

Lucy's shoulders sag and she pushes her plate away, finally admitting defeat. 'Why even think about it? Why even go there? How is it worth the trouble?'

I smile. 'Well, he is kind of cute.'

Lucy narrows her eyes; my attempt at humour is not welcome. 'Can you be serious about this? Your father murdered—_strangled_—his brother, Fred. He—they … It's—it's inappropriate!'

I stare coldly at her. 'How exactly is it inappropriate?'

She swallows but she doesn't back down. 'You know it is, Fred.'

'For fuck's sake, Luce.' I catch myself just before my fist smacks the table. 'He's twenty-four. He's not some kid. Neither am I.'

When I look up, fighting the stinging in my eyes, I see Lucy cringing. Fear or shame? I look down at my clenched hand and let it relax.

'Fred, I'm sorry.' She sounds sad.

My hand shakes; I watch it, noting the tapering length on my fingers—long and finely shaped like my mother's. Like Mum's.

Not Dad's.

'I am being serious, Aunt Luce.' It's the truth. 'I'll make a deal with you. Let me see those boxes tonight. I'll tell Jamie who I am. If he wants me to leave—I'll go, I promise.'

'Just like that?' She doesn't believe me.

'Yes. Just like that. I'm not a complete idiot.'

'You tell me that when I pick you up from A&E. You realise you're not playing a game, don't you? You'll be lucky if you don't get your head kicked in for this.'

'Guess I'm prepared to take that chance.'

'What about your plans? Your documentary?'

_The one you never believed in?_ It would be rich of me to have a go at Aunt Lucy considering how quickly I'm considering dropping my plans. But honestly? The documentary was probably a bit a self-deception. An excuse to legitimize coming here. Jesus, I'm flaky.

'I'll find some other way to do it.'

The chair scrapes on the floor when she pushes back. 'Okay,' she says in suspicious capitulation.

'Look—' I reach out to her. 'If Jamie Latimer can't cope with me being in Broadchurch, it'll answer my real question.'

'Which is?'

'You know.'

Lucy stands, shaking her head. 'Help me clear the table. I'll have a look once the dishes are done.'


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

* * *

A stream of dust from the rafters peppers the air. Despite my offer, Lucy has climbed up to find our family box herself. In the process, she's dislodged two decades of her own mothballed memories.

'Take this, will you?' Another box is lowered into my waiting arms. 'Just drop it on top of—ah'—Lucy twists back—'Olly's old rabbit hutch will do.'

The garage isn't big to start with—more like a bent bike stacked on a busted freezer stacked on the beat up car, all concertinaed into a space of garden shed proportions. A narrow path is mown between the outside door and the driver's side. By now we've hidden every free surface with a box or a bag.

'Are you sure it's here?' I was optimistic when she started, but it's hard not to eye the expanding mess with growing doubt.

She's on a ledge created from a loose hardwood board. Boxes deposited over time have formed horizontal strata. If you want the older stuff, you have to burrow deeper.

'Of course I'm—hold up. That's odd.' Her sandals wiggle into view, bringing her forward in time, where the newer boxes were put—just last year, she had said.

'This is it.'

'You found it?'

Luce is almost on the edge and she looks down at me. She rubs her forehead, leaving a grimy dash on it. 'Olly must have moved some things around when he came home last.'

My hands tingle when they connect with gritty cardboard; I hug the box close. It's weighty with promise; whatever it contains strains against the sides; nothing slides or rattles from within. Whatever's here is crammed in. It has to be eager to escape.

Lucy waves off my obligatory offer to help re-order her garage when I set the box on her kitchen table.

'Won't take long,' she says. 'Besides, maybe you'd like some—you know—space.'

'Thanks, Luce. You're a star.'

And she is. I know she wants to talk to me about Jamie again, but she's holding off.

Despite what Lucy thinks, I won't be alone at all—I'll have accomplices. A future potential audience observing through a glassy camera eye propped on a tripod, waiting for me to unearth my history.

The door clicks shut when Lucy slips out, leaving me with the box that's been undisturbed for more than two decades.

I stare at it.

It's one of those upright boxes, with a brand name in red print and a picture of a bunch of bananas. Modern still life.

Inertia grounds me.

It's not my box.

I've no idea what's in it—or why my mother never reclaimed it. Did she forget about it deliberately, or did it slip her mind? Maybe the things it contains no longer are important.

What right do I have to rifle through it?

I've shut the living room door. I've drawn the blinds against the fading light of day and to conceal my own furtiveness. The bulb in the kitchen casts an orange hue on the surface of the box, its thick coating of dust now like downy fuzz.

My hesitation is shortlived.

'A fruit box.' My mouth twists. 'No handle with care anywhere.'

I'd have laughed if the box said fragile.

Quartered snugly under each other, the flaps at the top bulge.

'I don't know what I'm going to find in here,' I say to the camera as I slip a hand under an edge in the centre. 'My aunt says they packed up in a hurry—'

The flaps spring away with a rasping sigh and I can't speak.

My gaze roves over loose sheets of paper—the uppermost layer. Turning one reveals a child's artwork and sloppy moniker. Tom. There's a sun and three brown bean people—two big ones holding the stick hand of a little one. The paint is faded but fresher in two crisp circles in the top left and right corners. Magnets, I'll bet, held this piece on the fridge a long time before it got whisked away.

At last I face the camera, presenting the artwork. 'It could be any five year old's painting—but it feels poignant that the first thing I touch from our box of family treasures is a picture of everything we lost.'

I leaf through a handful of the paintings, on the look out for something I might have done, but they are all too skilled to be the product of a one year old.

'I'm guessing these are all Tom's.'

I stack them beside the box. The next layer is as striking in arrangement as parquet design, geometric rectangles interlocking with Tretris precision. No room for space between the shapes of an old shoebox, books, gold trimmed photo album spines, and a plastic container. No room, with one exception: the plush ear tips of a stuffed toy poking through in a corner.

'Just looking, nothing's jumbled together.' Nothing betrays the speed of our departure. 'It makes me think whoever packed this box put some care into it. But I guess the question remains. If these things were so important, why did no-one come back for them?'

My finger investigates the many parallel edges sandwiched against and at right angles to each other. 'Photo albums, photos frames, a box of'—I dislodge a vintage chocolate box, which pops out in relief, and shake it—'jewellery?'

Necklaces and rings mainly. Most of it looks costumy, but a gold ring with a large gem catches my attention. 'Years in a box but its facets still glitter under light.' It has to be sapphire. My mother still wears a wedding ring but I've never seen an engagement ring.

I pry out an album which protests with celluloid stickiness, latched on to its neighbour and resisting efforts to be separated. It comes with a hiss. I consider looking at the album but put it to one side.

Now that the pressure has eased in the box, the rigid pattern relaxes, making it easier to lift things.

I group items with forensic care. The framed photos are instant thrills—my parents and Tom, all much, much younger. Tom's a full decade older than me. That's a whole ten years of a family and memories without me—times I've only been able to imagine.

'You all look so happy.' And they do. There's not one single photo in here which hints at the shadow to fall. My mother's faces in the frames beam with elfin spark, wide set, bright eyes, pixie grin. Her eyes are still large, and she still smiles, but her eyes and the smile no longer connect with the same lightness—not the way they do here. Young Tom has an easy charm about him. No sign of the cloud of solemnity dogging him as it does in every other photo I have ever seen of him (that wasn't for a publicity stunt). Dad and his gaunt cheekbones, his deepset limpet eyes—of all of them, he is the least changed. So far as to be unchanged.

'Now, who are these?' I ask, plundering heavier frames from the box. The metal has oxidised almost black; is it silver? The old-fashioned black and white photo has a sixties look to it—a young couple in their wedding photo. The woman bares a resemblance to photos of Mum at a similar age. Is this her mother?

Dorset born and bred, Mum's parents died years before I arrived. I don't think even Tom met them. Mum has very few photos from her Broadchurch days—and none of her parents. Wouldn't she want this?

'Delving deeper, there's cards, handwritten notes … two cassette tapes—again, handwritten. A videotape—' Like everything else I put them aside for further inspection before plunging my hand in for more.

'So you're a monkey,' I say to the plush toy. 'Here's your chance to tell your story. Who are you? And how did you make your way into this mess?'

Here by chance—something soft to cushion a more delicate treasure?—or here by right, and conveniently squishy?

It was wedged against a figurine, a comical finger high policewoman. There are two others—a mustachioed detective and a uniformed copper wielding a truncheon and a goofy expression.

The police trio have been nestled in fabric which, unfurled, is a white blouse. Add to the sharp little collar a trim blue tie: my mother's first police uniform? She kept the skirt as well.

There's a curious layer of odds and ends—buckles and badges and things begging closer attention, and then I hit something solid and smooth. It takes up a large portion of the bottom of the box.

'Hello. What might you contain?' I ask the wooden jewellery box as I put my thumb under the lip and try to raise the lid.

It doesn't budge.

'There's got to be a key in here.' The ornaments jingle and chink while I scrape through them. Finding nothing there, I try the chocolate box, but it, too, holds no key.

It's an exquisitely crafted box—smooth, golden wood—and resistant to my poking and prodding. The lid has hinges and probably opens to a deep chest; at the bottom there are two drawers, one on top of the other. It's unclear to me how the locking mechanism works; there is a single, solitary keyhole centred under the lip.

'Well, that's a bugger. The mystery lives to survive another day. Where is the key that opens the chest? And what could be in it?

'In the meantime, there are other things to look through.' I pick up that first album, amazed (and delighted) to discover there are dates and descriptions under all of the photos. All in my mother's handwriting.

The wooden chest is just one item from my family's box—and maybe not even the best. It's time to look back into the past. I turn off the camera—looking through someone else's photo album's never that fun—and prepare to learn more about my family.

Within minutes, I'm chilled and captured. The depth of my parents' betrayal deepens with every new page.

And I can't tear my eyes away.

Lucy finds me contemplating the final album when she pokes her head around the door. 'You okay?'

I look up, startled. 'Pardon?'

'I found some other stuff you might be interested in later—Olly had some things. And this.' She pushes a bulging bin liner bag through the door. 'The old one fell apart in my hands. I had to stuff everything in a rubbish bag.'

I pinch my chin. 'Everything?'

'It's your Dad's stuff.'

* * *

What do I do with all these things now I've unpacked them?

I'm standing, surveying my handiwork.

Putting everything back makes no sense—even if I could—but I don't know what else to do. I can't take them with me. If Jamie tells me to fuck off—or lets me know in some other fashion (as my aunt fears)—I suppose I can box it all then.

I need more time to go through it all. Lucy will be able to talk about some of it. Making an inventory would be a smart move—although lists usually bore me.

My mind strays back to the photos I spent an hour studying. There were beach trips full of buckets and spades and seashells and sand castles. Backyard barbecues, excursions into woods. They all went on a steam train excursion once, even putting the boys in Victorian clothes for the photos. When Tom and Danny started school, they posed, arm in arm, in their uniforms at the school gate. Birthdays, sports days, learning to sail, lunch at _their_ place.

It's impossible to forget this one photo—Tom and Danny: it must be dusk; Tom thrusts a marshmallow stick into a campfire, while Danny theatrically bears his teeth in preparation for clearing his stick off in one, disgusting, gooey mouthful. Mum, pregnant, sits off to one side, and Dad … Dad is kneeling behind the boys, his arms draped around their shoulders.

That image has made me its prisoner. I turned the page on that photo an hour ago, but I can't shake the image from my mind.

Dad's bag of things—clothes, Lucy says—I can't even go near. It's still sitting in its little slumping heap over by the catfood dish and scrap bin.

The photo albums are riddled with evidence—it makes sense, really. It's a wonder I'm only just working this out …

I knew Tom had known Danny, that they had gone to school and played together. But it was more than that—beach visits, barbecues, hiking trips—and it was all of them. Danny, Danny's parents, his sister, Tom. Mum. Dad.

'How could I be so stupid?'

Galvanised, I snap to, gathering the albums into my arms and striding to the living room where I can hear the canned sound of a TV soap.

Lucy flinches when I storm in.

'Why didn't anybody tell me?' I dump the albums on the couch to punctuate my accusation. 'They were friends. Really good friends.'

'Of course.' Lucy's brows knit together. 'Right from preschool. Tom and Danny did everything together. They used to follow Olly round everywhere, too.'

It's obvious she has no idea how shocked I am.

'Not Tom and Danny!—Mum and Dad and Danny's parents. They were all really good friends. I can see it.'

She nods. 'Mark and Beth.'

'I had no idea.'

She still doesn't get my confusion. 'To be fair, Fred, everyone knows everyone in Broadchurch. I suppose growing up in the city you wouldn't know what that's like.'

That's Aunt Lucy—words sinking into my heart as efficiently as her knife sinks into a cabbage.

Suddenly her concern about Jamie Latimer makes ten times more sense to me; the degree of closeness between his family and mine is magnified hundredfold.

That I'd been contemplating the idea of my mother ever coming back for a visit now is ludicrous.

Acquaintances—people you merely know, distant neighbours—_those_ memories and _that_ hatred might fade. But when it's friends—and family? That sort of betrayal brands deep.

But there's worse to learn.

'Pictures only tell half the story.' Lucy makes a sad face and reaches to a pile of scrapbooks next to her chair. 'I forgot about these.'

She flicks through one and I see it's full of newspaper clippings. My stomach tightens for a new blow.

'Olly's?'

'From his first job. His boss was old-school. Trained him to cut out all his stories.' Lucy's hands linger over the pages. 'I was so bloody proud of him. Couldn't believe it—my son, the reporter.'

She grabs another one. Its cover is worn along the fold as if it's been opened and closed many times. None of the others seem as close to disintegration.

'Olly covered the trial, didn't he?' I am wary. The internet is a strange beast. It's easy to bring up some original articles from two decades ago, but others you have to know where and how to look and even then that's no guarantee. You can still access some stories which were picked up by larger sites, but the integrity of the Broadchurch Echo website server must have been compromised at some point because very few of Olly's stories can be found now.

I've looked.

Lucy taps a page. 'Olly—the little shit—broke the story. Dropped your mum in a fucking mess.'

'How so?'

'He put Danny's name out before the police had said anything. He saw them down at the beach with the body. Worked it out. He knew Ellie was investigating and got her to confirm it. She got a right bollocking from Alec when he found out.'

'Mum was investigating? I thought Alec—?'

'Did your mum ever tell you how and where they met?'

'I know he arrived just before Danny's murder.'

'That's right. You lot had just got home from holiday. It was Ellie's first day back. She met Alec on the beach. Next to Danny's body.'

'Literally over his body?'

Mum likes socialising but usually without Alec. Possibly a good thing because I imagine answering the old "now how did you two meet" question might get a touch awkward.

'Ellie was his partner or sidekick or whatever they call it.'

'Mum was actually a part of the investigation?'

'Right up until'—Lucy makes a face, struggling with the words. 'Weeks and weeks she worked on it. Did you know they got flak for it? It was taking too long—everyone was incompetent, blah, blah, blah. I came to see her once—we weren't really talking and she was ignoring my texts—waited for hours for her to get home. She looked like shit. When I think about all those weeks she was working and then going home to _him_ … '

I've never really considered the length of the investigation before. 'Shit.'

Weeks and weeks. And she was actively working on it.

'She was called as a witness for the prosecution,' I say. 'I knew she wasn't called in her capacity as an officer. Alec testified for that. And some of the forensic guys. I don't know what I thought. I always just associated the investigation with Alec—he got all the glory.'

Lucy looks at me.

'Yeah, I know,' I say. 'Sick thing to say.'

She hands me the scrapbook. 'You don't have to look.'

I shrug. 'It's not like I don't know how the story ends.'

Only, turns out what I don't know was how the story _began_.

Olly's articles lay the whole sorry tale out chronologically for me. The small town peace rocked by a local boy's death, the horrific realisation it was murder. The weeks of investigative standstill—the police appearing baffled and blind. The fingers of suspicion whipping up a frenzy of small town madness—I'd never heard of Jack Marshall until tonight, but they'd hounded him to death for something my father had done. The paper going silent for weeks and then all of a sudden the frontpage bombshell explosion.

'Once Joe's name was out there, Olly stayed away from the story. He left it to his editor. She could've pushed him—they were all scrambling to talk to Ellie—but Maggie never did.

'Alec did a lot to protect your mum, and Olly and Maggie went along with it. Anybody—_anybody_ who truly knew your Mum'—here Lucy sounds angry—'knew she couldn't have known anything.

'When the tabloids couldn't get to her, they got _at_ her. Talking to 'friends' and ex-colleagues—no one I'd ever heard of. It was all trash, what they said. I don't know if she ever read any of it.'

I hedge my next question. 'Did the Latimers ever speak publicly?'

Lucy looks me in the eye.

'_Betrayed By My Best Friend_—that was headline, I think.'

When she fled Broadchurch Mum had no time to escape with everything, so she put it in a box which got buried. Looks like I'll have to leave Broadchurch too with my own buried dream.

'There's no way, is there?' I press my hands against the scrapbook. 'She'll never be welcome back.'

And it's more than that.

Even if they welcomed her back, she wouldn't come.

I know my mum. She wouldn't want to rake up all that hurt all over again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

* * *

The pub where Jamie suggests we meet is across the road from my hostel. He's late and I'm tempted to get the hell out of here.

While it's still daylight. While nobody still knows me.

I'm set to go if I have to—slipping out by bus wasn't what I had planned, but knowing how to improvise is a practical theatre-of-life skill.

After discussing the box with Lucy, she agrees to let me store its contents in her spare room. We go through everything together while I make that inventory, although the only things she's able to shed any light on are the little comedic police figurines.

'They might be worth something today,' she says. 'They were a gift from Dad—set of six originally—because Ellie was so obsessed with being a copper when she grew up.'

'Where are the other three?'

Lucy ducks her head and mumbles something under her breath. Then she looks at me. 'We were fighting. I threw a book at her and it knocked a shelf on top of them. Three got smashed.'

There's sorrow in her eyes. 'God, she was angry. She was this far'—Lucy pinches her thumb and forefinger—'from laying into me.

'I tried to apologise but she wouldn't listen to me, so I got in a huff—we avoided each other for a month. Sisters, huh?'

I look up from my list. 'I never see you fight—not really.'

Sure, they have disagreements, but Mum and Lucy always seem tight. Growing up, Lucy visited us whenever she could since Mum obviously couldn't come to her.

'You reach a point when you realise life's too precious to waste on the petty stuff. And if you haven't got family, what have you got?'

All Mum ever wanted to do was be a police officer. Lucy's story gives the little figurines more meaning. They now have context. I arrange them in a line on a set of drawers in the spare room. I've been photographing items as I go and using an app to catalogue everything. I look back to Lucy.

'After Dad?'

Lucy nods.

'We put it all behind us after that.'

'You never looked for replacements?'

'It was too late. I've no idea where Dad got them from—I don't know anything about antiques. He died before I could ask—Ellie was 14, I was 16—heart attack.'

I've never asked Mum much about her family. Out of sight, out of mind. The answers to anything I did ask never stuck. But here, in Broadchurch, filling in the blank spaces in my family knowledge makes sense.

'Your mum died not long after, didn't she?'

'Several years later. She got to see Olly born, but she got very frail. Neither Mum nor Dad was that old when they died. Dad's heart went and the cancer got Mum.'

Cancer: scourge of the twentieth century. There's more you can do for it now—cures, even, for some types—but science has only done enough for us to play catch up. That beast is always two steps ahead. I'm almost too scared to ask. 'What kind—?'

'Lung,' Lucy replies, almost too quickly.

I nudge the little policewoman figurine more to the right. Got to make this picture perfect. 'That must have been hard.' I say it without swallowing.

Lucy's hand curls around her cigarette packet. 'I had Olly—and Pete was still around. Ellie was in her first year on the beat. We got by, I suppose. You just didn't think about it.'

Her pragmatism makes me shiver. I don't want to contemplate life without my mum. I used to have nightmares about her and Tom—even Alec—disappearing. Not coming home. Or us being in a shops or something, and me turning around and them not being there.

I don't know how I'd feel about Dad dying. There's a lot I don't know how to feel about my father. I worry about him being released—for his sake as much as Mum's. It's not the same world for a start. What's left for him in life?

I don't want him to die. I don't hate him—unlike most of this town—but the thought of him 'not being there' doesn't fill me with the same sort of gasping dread as the thought of losing Mum. Mostly I pity him.

Sudden I snort. I lost my father years ago—and it seems I never noticed.

There's a small impression on the base of the detective, as though he's giving us our very own clue. 'This could be a maker's mark. You could use that to track down—'

'You could just stand Jamie up. You don't have to go tonight.'

We've skirted around this topic. Lucy's held her tongue to this point. The strain must have got the better of her.

I smile. 'Do you want me to stick around for a while longer, Aunt Lucy?'

Her hand pulls a cigarette from the crushed box.

'With Olly being overseas, I hardly get any family visitors. It's been nice. And getting this stuff out—it's probably about time. It'll be sad to see you go so soon after you got here.'

* * *

Now, sitting in a corner of the pub's beer garden, Lucy's suggestion has a lot of appeal. It's still early but the garden is filling quickly. I'm confident many of these people are tourists; at least that's what I'm hoping.

Why is it, again, I need to tell Jamie anything?

It's a pleasant evening—sunlight filters through a clematis-smothered trellis enclosing the courtyard and late shift bees work the flowers. Music from inside is muted and distant and not ruined by overpowering beat. The bar staff appear to be fans of 80s rock.

I've been rehearsing my part in the conversation but life's harder to script than a play or documentary. And timing's an issue too. I can't just launch into my confession, can I? But if I wait to bring it up, that's going to make it harder.

It doesn't start the way I think it should. Jamie is too quick for me, and he's not alone. The tourist bureau girl is with him.

'Just Fred!' He greets me like an old friend. 'What you drinking? Shell?'

He's gone as soon as he arrived, heading to the bar, where the barman leans over in a familiar manner and the two are soon laughing over some joke.

The girl, Shell, shucks her jacket over the seat to my right and bestows a broad, red smile on me. 'So you're Just Fred? Jamie's got such a big head—he reckons he bowled you over right from the start.'

'My last date didn't try half as hard,' I admit.

'That's our Jamie. Never does things by halves. Thinks he's completely irresistible.'

The subject of our conversation returns, nursing three jugs. He grins at the girl. 'Remember you promised, Shells—only the good stuff.'

Shell, it turns out, is a cousin and here for the summer. We chat while she waits for her girlfriends to collect her for a planned movie night. Jamie and Shell do most of the talking—debriefing on the events of the day which includes a stinging critique on tourists who don't follow simple directions then get sulky when their campervans get ticketed or boxed in on the High Street where the sign clearly says they can't park.

Shell directs the conversation, but when she turns her attention to me, her questions aren't too penetrative. Nothing I wasn't prepared for.

'I'm a film grad—doesn't really set you up for the real world. I'm supposed to be looking for a proper job. Thought I might as well take a holiday now before I have to chain myself to a desk somewhere.'

By the time Shell's girlfriends eventually roll in, she knows I've got one older brother, I support West Ham and I have had precisely two significant long-term relationships: one with my beautiful, expensive HDX Divv film camera and one which ended in spectacular implosion and catastrophic collapse (he cheated). We bond over that one.

'What an arse,' she says in consolation. 'Cheaters are the worst.'

When her friends sweep in, she gathers up her bag and jacket, and extends an invite for us to join the girls' night.

Shell gives Jamie a wink when he waves them off. 'Talk to you later. Nice meeting you, Fred. You should come out with us on the boat sometime.'

In a way I'm thankful for Shell. It was a light, fun chat. The kind I'd have loved if Jamie wasn't who he is and I wasn't who I am. For half an hour I got a chance to pretend this wasn't going to end in its own small explosion.

'Would you be up for that?' Jamie interrupts my thoughts. 'Dad's upgraded the boat. We usually take it out every weekend.'

With another round of drinks in front of us and Shell out the door, I grab my chance. 'Mate, truth is I'll probably be leaving in the morning.'

'Shame.' And Jamie does look disappointed. I actually feel bad about coming clean. There's no way to ease into this conversation.

'I'm not sure this town is ready for me.'

Jamie's lovely soulful eyes telegraph defensiveness. 'Hey, we may be the sticks, but Broadchurch has caught up with the twenty-first century, you know.'

'Yeah,' I say, 'that's not quite what I mean.'

His expression goes blank.

'That house you haven't been in. The one on Lime—' I shake my head, frustrated at how badly this is coming out. 'The guy who owns that house? The one in prison? He's my dad.'

Jamie's jug is suspended between the table and his lips. I feel his disbelief. His face has darkened in a heartbeat.

'You're fucking joking, right?'

'In this town? Not much of a joke.'

'Got that right.' The beer finally reaches his mouth and he downs the last of it. 'Fuck me.'

_Sure. Why not?_

'I don't believe this.'

I reach for my phone. 'My aunt's expecting to pick me up from A&E—should I call for an ambulance now?'

I don't think the joke registers with him. He stares at me, the truth creeping over his face in small measurable increments. 'You're Fred Miller. Fred Miller—or is it Hardy now?'

Lucy wasn't making it up. This town _has_ been keeping tabs on my mum.

'Miller—they never married.' I force myself to watch him, looking for any sign one way or the other.

'How could they? Everyone says your parents never got divorced.'

He is definitely not smiling. The signs are not good. I command myself to stay calm.

'People probably say lots of things.'

'That's true.' His jaw juts out and his arms cross; there's real resentment in his voice. 'Why are you telling me this?'

'I didn't want to lie to you. To be honest, I didn't even know you existed until yesterday. I didn't plan on telling anyone who I was—I just had some things I wanted to do here—but when I realised who you were … '

A snare disrupts the corner of his mouth.

'You just planned on sneaking in here and what? Sneaking out?'

I shrug. 'Pretty much. What's it to anyone else what I do? I didn't commit any crime. I've got family here. I have as much right to be here as anyone—this is where I come from. Nothing changes that. I promised my aunt I'd tell you, then look at clearing out tomorrow depending.'

'Lucy Stevens is your aunt.' Jamie nods as he makes the connection.

I breathe in deeply, steeling myself. Groping (figuratively) for the words to explain my predicament.

'All my life I've grown up knowing about Broadchurch. Knowing my family had this whole other life before me. It's the weirdest thing.'

Jamie gives me a peculiar look, not hostile or combative, so I go on.

'I came here thinking maybe I could try and understand it all by recording it. Talking to people, checking out the town, kind of documenting my own discovery of what happen—'

'I know what you're talking about.'

His remark catches me by surprise.

'About your family having a former life,' he continues.

'My family?' It's my turn to be confused.

'No.' He scoffs. 'Mine. Like they've all got some history. Or they lived in some weird other dimension. My oldest sister had left home by the time I knew who she was. It's weird when they talk about things they used to do, memories they've got. When they talk about my brother.'

The darkness in his eyes has subsided and he settles back, his arms relaxing. He looks at me as though he's waiting for me to say something.

'So … it doesn't bother you that I'm here?'

Just as he shrugs my phone pings an alert. 'Well, I'm pissed off I won't be able to introduce you to my parents.'

My reply is automatic as I flick on my phone to check it. 'I promised my aunt I'd clear out if you—wait—what did you say?'

His face is straight. 'I guess your aunt's going to be disappointed if you decide to stay longer—since you've already told her you're clearing out.'

Suddenly he can't contain himself; laughter bursts forth. 'Your face! Fuck, it's cute. You look so shocked.'

I look shocked? That's because I am. 'You're taking this better than I expected.'

'Hey, I won't be telling my mum any time soon—and don't expect to get invited around to lunch tomorrow—but I don't see why you don't have as much right to be here as anyone else.'

The things we don't tell our mums, hey? Mine still doesn't know where I am, but her message is enough to remind me I'm not out of the woods yet when it comes to explaining myself.

And I can't even begin to hope Mum's going to take my news as well as Jamie has.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

* * *

O glorious summer! O rolling fields of purpled heather. O drifting sparks of new kindled desire, catching every heart afire. Blah, blah, blah.

It couldn't last.

The personalised ringtone warns me to expect trouble. 'Shit.'

Jamie's eyes spring open. 'Who—?'

I put a finger to my lips in warning before taking a deep breath and answering. 'Good morning, Alec.'

'You'd better have a bloody good excuse.' No wasting words on pleasantries, then.

I stretch and yawn. 'Nice hearing from you, too.'

Beside me the blankets rustle. Jamie flings out an arm to hoist the duvet over him, exposing my backside to an unseasonable early morning chill. He mouths, 'Is that—?'

I nod.

My poor eardrum. Alec's fury pounds the cell connection. 'Is that all you've got to say for yourself? Your mother—'

At that my pulse quickens and my hand tightens around the phone. 'Does she know?'

I've been expecting this call—from either Mum or Alec—for the last couple of weeks. All they've had from me is a few messages, a non-revealing pic or two. Nothing to give away my location or who I've been spending time with. I knew it wasn't going to hold them off for forever, and I knew I should call, but I just couldn't make myself.

I've been having too much fun.

'That you're in Broadchurch? Not yet, but she will when I tell her.'

'Is that necessary?'

'So you're not denying it?'

On the one hand, dammit; I've fallen for a classic trap. On the other, _all_ he appears to know is that I'm in Broadchurch. The opening invective would have been far more colourful otherwise. It's hard not to be resentful. 'Did you actually know where I was, or did you just take a stab in the dark?'

'Your mate Rob's not very good at lying.'

I rub sleep out of my eye. 'Rob? What's he—'

'Ellie thought she'd try and reach you last night. When she couldn't get you, she tried Rob—thinking you'd be on the boat together.'

'Oh, yes?' I scratch my chin. 'What did he say?'

I never asked Rob or Jenna to lie for me; I just never thought Mum would call them.

They've been living a dream, spending several months sailing, going wherever whim and wind takes them. I've known both Rob and Jenna since school; they know Mum, and they know about Dad, about my family connection to Broadchurch. They offered to sail me here, and (all going to plan) collect me in August. They knew I had been vague about my intentions with my family, but we never discussed arranging a cover story.

As far as Mum knew, I was sailing with them. My last great hurrah before attempting to join the real world of full-time employment. Mum was unimpressed, but since I'd saved up for it working part-time, plus the fact I am more than old enough to make these decisions for myself, there was little she could do except make a mealy-mouthed face and tell me not to take any unnecessary risks.

At the time, Alec was less restrained. 'You're fucking taking the piss, no?'

Alec has a little problem containing his opinion.

'They had a right old chat, did Rob and your mum. Rob told Ellie you were out for the evening but you'd left your phone behind—and not to worry, he'd get you to call in the morning.'

'Seems fair enough,' I say.

Good old Rob. I owe him a beer for the effort.

'You without your phone?' Alec's sneer is audible. 'When your mum was out of the room, I called him back to get a real answer. He was surprisingly more forthcoming.'

'What did you threaten him with?' I ask with genuine interest. Alec's been terrorising my friends for years. They love him for it.

The dig about me and my phone is unfair though. It would probably amuse Alec to know Rob was sort of right. I'd let my phone battery drain down to nothing (by accident) last night, and while I'd had presence of mind to set it on recharge, I hadn't checked it for any messages or alerts.

And then I got distracted.

Jamie chooses this moment to run the tip of his finger down my chest. He smirks at my quiver. I make a face and roll away. Alec and I get on, but there are things I know he definitely does not want to hear about in soft porn detail.

'Look, Alec, Rob and Jenna put me down in Broadchurch two weeks ago. I'm not here to cause any trouble. Just learning the lay of the land, seeing the sights, catching up with Lucy.'

When you grow up in a household where honesty is not just the gold standard, it's the only the standard, you're smart to learn its elastic qualities—otherwise your social life is sunk. It's a matter of sanity and survival.

'If that were so, Fred, you could have been in and out in two days—not a fortnight.'

'Fine. I'm here for my own reasons. None of which I have to tell you—but, please, Alec. Let me tell Mum.'

'You've got until the end of the day.'

Fair enough. I'll have a few pints at the pub tonight and give her a call then. Alec's nearly disconnected the call before I remember. 'Hey! Mum's OK, isn't she? There's nothing to worry a—'

'Aye, she's fine.' It's not unusual for Alec to be terse, but his abruptness takes me back. Had there been a small catch in his voice? Once we've finished, my hands bring the side of the phone to my mouth where it taps out my concern.

'Was that your step-dad?'

I turn to Jamie. 'I told you. They never married.'

'Yeah, but—'

'He kind of is, I suppose—it's hard to explain.'

For a time, in my earliest memories, Alec was not there. Then he was. I didn't question it. I knew he wasn't my father, so I never called him Dad, although he certainly took the place of a father.

'Wasn't it weird? Your mum getting together with him?'

I study the ceiling, rolling onto my back. 'Weird? No, not really.'

'My parents thought it was strange.'

'Did they?'

On the subject of family, Jamie and I have stayed coy. Since meeting up in the pub, we've spent most sleeping hours together. If the hostel staff know what's going on, they're professional enough to be discreet. Jamie's job keeps him occupied during the day, and when we meet up at night it's usually to go to a pub, often in a neighbouring town. Last weekend we went to Chesil Beach. I don't want it to be this way, but we both breathe easier outside of Broadchurch. We both know we'll have to talk about it at some point. Although, in the back of my mind, there's that tiny voice telling me it's a summer fling so why bother.

'Mum and Alec never discuss Broadchurch or anyone in it.'

That Mum struck up a relationship with someone wasn't weird to me. That it happened to be her old boss also meant nothing to me. But when I think about _them_, maybe, I can see where Jamie's parents' surprise comes from.

'You can't blame my parents.' Jamie prickles when he is defensive. 'They talk about Danny a lot. It's inevitable your mum would come up.'

My hands lace under my skull. 'Mum doesn't mention Danny, but I'm certain she thinks about him.'

I explain my theory about my mother's bouts of sickness. 'I think she thought about Danny so much it made her ill.'

When I glance at Jamie, he's biting his lip—a fetching habit of his. 'Because of the vomiting?' he asks.

'Five years ago she got cancer.'

I want it to sound stark.

'But she's—'

'Yeah, she's all right now. They caught it early. But it still makes me think. I find myself wondering if things had gone differently, if she hadn't had so much stress, maybe the cancer wouldn't have developed.'

Jamie's face softens. 'I didn't know—I don't think anyone did.'

Only Lucy would have known in Broadchurch. She came to stay after Mum had an operation and a short course of follow-up treatment. Mum's colleagues knew what was going on, but she had been particular about only close friends knowing, and her treatment never had visible side effects. The operation had been successful and the follow-ups precautionary.

'The famous Broadchurch jungle drums missed that announcement.' I shrug. 'Would they have cared?'

Jamie looks thoughtful. 'People still talk about them—your parents.'

'Talking isn't caring.' Of course they still talk about my parents. I doubt the tenor of the conversation has changed much in twenty-five years.

'People didn't know what to make of your mum hooking up with the detective who arrested her husband—I know that much.'

'_I_ don't know what to make of them. Sometimes I think they're just what the other needs, but then they bicker like you'd never believe. Watching them fight is like watching a spectacular electrical storm unleashing itself in reverse your living room. Mum can lash out with the most funny, ridiculous insults—usually after Alec's lost his temper and thunderclapped around the flat in his slippers and dressing gown. Ten minutes later they're discussing tea and scones and sunshine like the storm never happened.'

Jamie laughs. 'That could be anyone's parents.'

Make no mistake. These are take no prisoner fights. Nothing's for play. But nothing's held onto. I'm glad anger is one thing Alec and my mother can both let go. It's other emotions they cling to more tightly.

'They're as bad as each other. They're just both so—I don't know—wounded. Like they try to hide it but they've been damned to eternal suffering.'

Too late I realise the ridiculousness of romanticising my mother and step-father's scarred emotions to the son of a man and woman who had their child brutally murdered.

'It's nothing like what your family's gone through …' I say quickly.

Jamie hauls himself up, grabbing his jeans from the floor. I check the time on my phone. Six in the morning.

'See, that's what people like to hear,' he says. 'Your mum's supposed to suffer. They still hold her responsible, you know.'

I scramble up. 'How exactly? What exactly did she do? As far as I can see it, she tried to do right by everyone. Danny's death all but destroyed everything for her.'

Jamie disappears into his T-shirt as he yanks it over his head. 'I don't know your mum—or your dad. Or Hardy. But you can understand _my mum_. She thinks it's impossible your mother didn't know something. To her that's pretty much unforgivable.'

My hands grip the sheets and I bite back an urge to fight on my mother's behalf. She does not deserve this cruelty. She doesn't.

With my new found knowledge of the murder and what happened after, Jamie's comment lances the heart of the matter. His mum and mine had once been friends. When Dad throttled Danny, he choked the life out of their friendship too.

And like that, the missing piece of the puzzle drops into place. It's not the town stopping Mum from returning; it's Beth Latimer.

'Yeah, well, if it's suffering this town likes, it should be delighted.' I can't help myself lashing out. 'God knows Mum's not getting any peace any time soon.'

Jamie looks at me. 'What do you mean?'

'I'm surprised you don't know.'

'Know what?' He stares at me.

'My father's got a parole hearing next month. He's had two already, and he was close to getting it last time. Chances are he'll be out before summer's over. Don't they tell you this? I thought the victim's family got special notification.'

From the look on his face, I can tell my news has shocked Jamie. He's shaking his head.

'Do you think your parents just haven't told you?'

He shakes his head again. 'No. We're a family in this.'


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

* * *

The run of good weather in Broadchurch has turned menacing—a stiff breeze from the sea no longer a dependable comfort in the afternoon. Heat radiates off the glossy headstones as Jamie leads me across a patchwork field of grave sites. We've already shed our t-shirts. A sheen of sweat slicks my skin.

Wild flowers and clover heads droop under the intense generosity of the sun. Little now to celebrate about their joyous escape from the cemetery worker's savage blade.

The aroma on the air is pure garden roast—steeping lawn clippings and motor fluid, sizzling lilies and singed chrysanthemums.

Jamie stops at a gleaming black headstone close to a low stone fence.

In Loving Memory of Daniel Latimer  
3rd May 2002 - 18th July 2013  
Our Danny, Forever loved

His body's down there—what, 6ft? The boy Dad buried. Put his hands around his neck and squeezed. The whole thing seems crazy. Crazy that this kid's body lies just below me—that I'm scant feet from the person whose death derailed my whole life. That all that separates us is some barrowfuls of sod and the paneling of a casket.

The setting asks unsettling questions of my father. Who'd throttle a kid? _Why?_ That's a question which frightens me because I know the answer. My father killed to protect a secret.

The sweat trickling down my back might be from a chill as much as the heat. Anything less than honesty scares my mother. This places makes me feel _why_.

Dropping to a knee, Jamie brushes dried yew needles from the stone, careful to avoid knocking the poppy, geranium and clematis blooms packed in a jar in front if it. 'Mum keeps it tidy. We used to come up here once a month. I think she comes up alone too. There's always fresh flowers.'

That's enough to send another shiver through my body. I look over my shoulder, suddenly apprehensive. 'She wouldn't come today, would she?'

It's Sunday. Growing up, there were no graves for us to visit, but if I had to guess I'd say Sunday would be the day for it. We aren't alone here—two or three visitors shuffle among the tombstones in the shaded garden closer to the church.

'She's already been.'

I peer closer at the grave and see that the poppies stand brighter and stiffer than tributes left on neighbouring headstones.

'They're off to some barbecue by now—one of Dad's coastguard mates.'

I thought the news about my father's parole hearing would have horrified the Latimers—and maybe it will—but Jamie told me as we ate breakfast this morning he'd wait to tell them.

I was expecting outrage. Jamie gives me a shrug. 'It's not like we didn't know it was a possibility. It's not like anyone's afraid of him. I saw a picture of your dad from his sentencing—he was sniveling.'

That stings. _Sniveler or not, he _strangled _your brother._

Jamie has no clue what I'm thinking. He continues, 'I want to work out how I'm going to tell them—they'll want to know how I found out.'

I look at the headstone again. Does tending this grave ease Beth Latimer's pain or keep it stoked? The longer I stare, the more my shoulders and cheeks sear. Even the sun burns in indignation.

I had planned to visit Danny's grave—but I never expected I'd be doing it with a living Latimer. Jamie suggested the visit after I asked him if he ever thought about his brother's murder. 'The murder? Not so much. Not at first. Usually someone'll mention him and I'll wish I could've known him. _Then_ I think about why I don't.'

Now, staring at the grave, I think about Jamie not knowing Danny. So, maybe the murder isn't the first thing he thinks of when his brother pops into his thoughts—but it's always the last thing, the final thought. Always.

_There will never be a happy ending to this story._

The realisation makes it painful to breathe. I squeeze my eyes shut and wince. That's the risk you take with secrets.

'You could just tell them … about me.'

Jamie's head whip around. 'Are you joking?'

When he sees I'm not, he glances away. 'Now's not a good time, what with the wedding and all.'

It sounds like an excuse, but I don't say that to Jamie. His oldest sister is getting married—at last, apparently. Cousin Shell is to be a bridemaid, as is Jamie's other sister, born a year after him. (They call themselves the Latimer family reboot, he jokes.) The wedding is set for August.

Chloe, his older sister—Jamie hasn't said much about her. There is a significant age gap between them—almost double the decade that separates Tom and me. She doesn't live in Broadchurch anymore, but according to Jamie, Beth and Mark Latimer were overjoyed when she and her longterm partner decided to make it official. They're coming home for the wedding.

Jamie turns the conversation away from his family. 'What about your mother?'

Yeah. Indeed. What about my mother? Alec won't break his word—I have until the end of the day to tell her. If I don't, he will. But how much will I tell her?

Jamie doesn't want to hurt his mother, and I don't want to hurt mine. There's no comparison between our secrets and Dad's.

'C'mon,' Jamie turns to leave. 'Might as well take the coastal walk up on the cliffs while we're here.'

It's a day for confrontation—not people, but places. The grave, Lime Ave again, retracing Danny's final steps … I've suggested none if this—it's all come from Jamie. I'm not sure what his motivation is. I told him about my documentary plan early on, but I glossed over the details, fudging my commitment. We haven't discussed it since.

I want to do it—I want to see these places. See how they fit into Jamie's family mythology. The heat saps any good sense I have and any will I have to exercise it.

He'd been quiet at the grave. It's only as we're walking away that Jamie seems able to talk about Danny.

'There's things I'd love to ask him, you know?' Jamie swoops down to collect a fallen branch and swings it at a thistle head. 'Mostly I just want to ask him how he got himself into that mess in the first place.'

'What would you have done?'

'In that situation? Not get killed?' His laugh is short and hollow and dies quickly. When he speaks again he is serious. 'I don't see how I'd've let it get to that point. He sounded like a bright kid—always making everyone laugh about something. How'd he let himself get caught?'

I don't have an answer. I know what the psychologists would say, but who really knows?

A name catches my eye. 'Stop a moment?'

Gerald and Elaine lie here—in a double plot on the shadowed side of the church. Lichen traverses and explores the borders and letter indentations on their shared headstone.

A plant reciprocal set into the base of the grave now holds a putrifying floral miasma, organic slurry drying and caking and cracked crisp around the metal edges.

Gerald Thomas Brown, 1940 - 1987  
Loving husband and father;  
and his beloved wife,  
Elaine Margaret Brown née Williams, 939 - 1991  
Loved parents

Jamie takes in the names. 'Your grands?'

'The dates fit.' The lichen doesn't lift when I scrape a fingernail under it. 'It hasn't been that long. None of the others around this age are as covered.'

Jamie refrains from saying what we're both thinking. Even the lichen is complicit in the burial of my family. It seems strange that a stain can sink back in time too.

Lucy is the last family representative left in Broadchurch in any position to honour the dead.

Lucy, I think, cares more for the living.

Thinking so is no slight on my aunt. She spent years remembering us—our special days—and getting to London when she could. If she chose to devote her energy to the living, I doubt the dead would begrudge her that.

It takes a dandelion to correct me—Lucy is not the only family member left in Broadchurch today. I pluck the stem and then a handful more, and lay them in a tiny heap at the base of the headstone.

* * *

'Fred!' Warmth flows from my mother's voice—even across the phone waves. 'How are you? _Where_ are you?'

I can tell Alec hasn't told her anything and she has no suspicions. All I hear is my mother's curiosity and natural exuberance.

'Hi, Mum. How's it going? Alec tells me you guys have finished the kitchen?'

I couldn't launch with the truth—that'd be too bald—too … 'Confession of a Guilty Man'. I'm hoping just to slip it in. Make no fuss. Sell it with a shrug.

She chuckles. 'All done—but not without casualty. I'll bet Alec didn't tell you about the cat, the spanner, and his big toe—'

I can hear grumbling in the background. Alec being testy probably. He might have been a brilliant detective (he's retired now), but Alec's home handyman 'adventures' are family legend. Mum's a safer bet with a hammer and wrench.

'I can guess—bet his toe is a healthy shade of purple now.'

We laugh together, and then I suck in a breath and step to the edge of the diving cliff. Well. Here goes. 'Mum, I'm in Broadchurch.'

The line goes silent. Deathly. I'm holding my breath. I don't think I've even blinked. My chest is starting to ache. The silence scorches.

'Okay.'

Her voice is small, distant, low.

'I won't do anything stupid—I'm not here to make trouble.' Words tumble in my hast to reassure her.

Again there's a beat of silence. Two beats. Heartbeats.

'Okay.'

There's no way either of us can recover this call. Mum needs time. 'Mum? I—I've got to go. I'll call you again. Tomorrow, I promise.'

My body shakes when I tap the phone to end the call. The muscles in my arms quiver. My stomach clenches when I realise I've straight out lied to my mother. I told her I wouldn't do anything stupid.

I already have.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **Annie and Technophobe, thank you for your messages.

**Chapter 11**

* * *

'Do you think I should leave?'

Condensation has beaded and dribbles down my pint of beer. I've had no more than a gulp. Instead I've been locked into position, staring down at the disintegrating foam head. Fizzling out pretty much the way my summer plans have.

'Up to you, mate.' Jamie downs his own drink without glancing my way.

While I appreciate that he is not the clingy sort, I wouldn't mind a bit more resistance to the threat of my departure.

We're back at the pub across the road from my hostel, and I am still smarting from my latest call to Mum.

It was a conversation full of long pauses, miss-starts, and hapless interruptions. There was no acrimony, but I felt restraint. Mum—bless her—had no trace of anger or remonstration in her voice; she asked polite questions that required no in-depth answers, nothing too revealing.

But when the call ended I struggled to identify the source of my dissatisfaction. It had been as if we were sitting in the room together calmly speaking of everything except the shortening fuse sparking at our feet. It was the sixth or seventh call I'd made since I told her where I was. They've all been like this.

My mother is hurting.

'It's not like I'm doing anything here.'

Jamie laughs. 'Your brother's right—you need a job.'

Financially I'm okay. I'd planned for this, but with little movement on the documentary side of things, there's little point to my days. Mum is hurting for no reason, it seems. Broadchurch is a nice town, but there's only so many walks along the beach you can take before the scenery gets monotonous. Besides, after our first stroll along the cliff top—past the hut where Dad killed Danny—I have developed a distaste for hill climbs. And I prefer to walk the other way along the coast, too, which limits my options.

My funds don't stretch far enough to hiring a car, so right now a push bike is my main source of transportation. I could bail. Bus to Taunton and catch the train back to London. Be back in half a day.

'I need a better plan,' I tell my weeping drink.

'Maybe Alec was right.'

My eyebrows shoot up.

'You didn't need two months in Broadchurch to fill in any missing holes in your life. You've been here, you've seen everything, you know more about what happened—you could have done that in two days. You've got nothing more to stick around for—except me, of course,' Jamie adds with a smug grin.

'Sheesh, the conceit,' I say. 'Dunno, really. I had this fantasy playing out in my mind. I'd come here, talk to some people, find out things had moved on …'

'What?' Jamie tosses me a curious look.

The words catch in my throat. 'Don't laugh—actually, don't say anything. I wanted to see if Mum could ever go home.'

Jamie pinches the rim of his empty glass and turns it, intent on the pointless rotation. 'It's a free world.'

'That's not what I meant.'

'I know what you meant.' At last he stares at me.'You're wondering if she'll ever be welcome back here.'

'It's your town. What do you think?'

His face hardens and he sizes up the pub and its mainly tourist clientele. It doesn't matter that they aren't from around here; they stand in for the citizens of Broadchurch. They cast the proxy vote. _Should the paedophile's former wife be let back into town?_ I wouldn't rest my hopes on their decision.

Jamie is measured in his assessment.

'Could your mother ever return to Broadchurch? Yeah, she could. Would anyone spit in her face in the street? I like to think we're more civilized than that.' Jamie draws out his conclusion with a dramatic pause. 'Would she feel ever _welcome_ here?'

The shaking of his head answers his own question. Maybe he can hear how harsh he sounds. His mouth twists in a compassionate grimace. 'Do you think she wants to come back?'

'Yes.'

'Has she said so?'

'I don't think she dares.'

Jamie turns away from me. 'As I said. It's a free world.'

Explanations are the last resort of the weak—explanations and exhortations to karma. I know I shouldn't, but I'm tired of no-one sticking up for my mum.

'It's like a wound that won't heal. Her whole life was here, everything she was connected to. She lost everything.'

'She still had _you_.'

I shut up.

'Talk to my mum about a wound that never heals.' He doesn't say it unkindly, but his point is well made. When it comes to loss, how does anything my family experienced compare?

I bite my lip until I realise I'm not ready to let this go. Letting go _feels_ wrong.

'Your mother holds mine responsible for what my father did—that's what you told me. Your mum's wrong—_anyone_ who thinks that is wrong. Maybe nothing will ever prove that, but it is the truth—only no-one's ever going to believe my mother. You can tell her go to hell if you want—she's there already anyway. It isn't _right_.'

And that's what bothers me. 'You know—Dad got a trial. Mum didn't even get that.'

Jamie pulls his phone from his pocket and checks it. Then he looks at me, his dark eyes full of—what? Pity? 'Emergency callout. I'm out of here.'

He stands and grabs his jacket. He goes no further than two steps before he turns back to me. 'My parents don't have their son. _That's_ not right.'

* * *

I fume all the way from the pub to my private room at the hostel, slamming the door hard enough to knock a ghastly pastel print of the wall. The glass in the frame smashes with a satisfying scream.

I don't disagree. The Latimers _should_ still have their son. It's fucked up. And Dad should and will pay—for the rest of his life—but Mum's never going to get a fair hearing. She'll never get the chance.

It seems unlikely Jamie will return this evening and I'm not going to message him. He's never going to see it from my point of view—and I'll just end up ramming my head against a wall in frustration trying to get an ounce of fairness from him for my mother. Right now I'm so angry I could thro—

Jesus.

Where did that thought come from? It's just an expression. Just an expression people use when they're angry. People don't mean anything by it.

Except, in my family, that's not true.

I need to be calm. I need to breathe. I need to talk.

I haven't visited Aunt Lucy for a week, but she keeps early hours—I'm not sure she'd appreciate me disturbing her for relationship advice. Ditto Tom, whose long string of ex-girlfriends isn't a great endorsement in that department either. Wherever Rob and Jenna are, they're not answering their phones.

Mum's out of the question. With grim amusement I imagine the phone call I might have with Alec. It almost makes me laugh. I feel some of the tension drain away.

Lucy it is then.

She agrees to meet me on the waterfront. It's a calm night. The streak of hot weather hasn't broken yet, and the night is balmy. We meet up and stroll to a bench on the promenade. As we sit the waves surge and crash below us.

Luce lays a consoling hand on my arm. 'Sweetie, you knew from the start it was a bad idea. For so many reasons.'

'I know you're right—but I kind of really like him.'

She snorts at the absurdity. 'Kind of? Don't feel the need to commit yourself _too_ much.'

'I've known him not much more than a month, Luce. Bit too early to be picking out china patterns.'

'You said it yourself, Freddie. Danny will always be there. It doesn't seem—you know—very even. How'd you get around that?'

'So you think I should go?'

Lucy shifts and wraps her arms around herself despite the lack of cold. 'Up to you, kiddo.'

Later, as I lie lonely in bed, my mind plots my escape. It's simple, really. If I'm up early enough, I can catch the 7.15am bus to the train station.

It's not bailing on Jamie—it's bailing on this town. Maybe if we both lived somewhere else … but Aunt Lucy is right. It doesn't matter where we are, we'll never be equal—even if we pretend.

Jamie's an early riser. If I message him at 6 in the morning, that will give him enough time to choose to see me off if he wants. After last night, he has to see it's for the best. It's not like he seemed that upset by the idea.

And it's not running away.

* * *

The shrill beep of my alarm shocks me awake. Turning it off, I see the message icon on my phone.

It's from Jamie. _'Perfect job for you. See Shel this a.m. if interested.'_


End file.
